Safe As Houses
by finest-kind
Summary: The staff of the 4077th are faced with a nightmare when one of their nurses returns from a familial visit to the 121st Evac the victim of a guerrilla's grenade. *Use of OC, Jane "John" Johnson*
1. Chapter 1

The air was still. Crisp and cool, no longer cold but not yet warm. It was late, well after midnight and creeping towards dawn. A few birds had begun to sing in the trees, although the sun still had yet to crest over the tall, green mountains that bordered the camp to the east. Peace at wartime. But tranquility was not to be long-lived.

A convoy of urgency flew into Colonel Potter's tent. Two men half-clad in sleepwear stood before the sleeping colonel, one of them tall and hulking with a sparse crown of hair, the other shorter and with a moustache that under normal conditions might have been called comical. Charles and BJ behaved like two men possessed. The surgeons crowded into the small, unlit space in a cloud of panic, each one speaking as loudly and unintelligibly as the other. The Colonel bolted upright in his bed and stared at the men as they verbally assaulted him, more confused than he had ever been when first waking up. Even sleeping in the foxholes of the first two world wars had not prepared him for this sort of madness.

"Quiet!" he shouted over the din, prompting the doctors to swallow their tongues as well as their words. "Now what in the name of Hannibal's elephants are you two goons shouting about? Don't you know what time it is?" The colonel dropped his voice and pointed his finger accusingly at the men. "If this has anything to do with the rash of practical jokes around camp lately, I kindly suggest you shove it somewhere the sun don't shine and get back to bed before I do it for you." Sherman ran a hand through his tuft of white hair and rubbed the sleep from his weary blue eyes. He waited for his staff to move. They didn't.

BJ took a deep breath and held it before letting go. He looked at his comrade for support and nodded. "Colonel, it's serious."

Potter reached for his nightstand and fumbled around for his glasses. He slid them on his face and motioned for Hunnicutt to continue. "All right, son. Let's have it."

"It's John," BJ said.

The colonel stared at him, confused. "Ain't the little lady visiting the 121st Evac? She's not due back 'til tomorrow in the PM."

"If I may, Hunnicutt," Charles interrupted, putting his hand on the other surgeon's shoulder. "Colonel, it appears as though Nurse Johnson's plans were changed last minute—"

"So what's all the hubbub?" In Potter's less than restful state, things were taking a while to make sense. Or maybe his men were just being nonsensical. It was sweet of them to miss John so much, but that certainly didn't warrant a 3 AM wakeup call of howling.

"The 'hubbub'," Charles continued, his voice betraying an urgent irritation, "as it were, is that John is not coming back tomorrow evening, she made the decision to return tonight only to become the target of enemy fire on her way." His face turned red. He'd said his peace all in one panicked breath.

Potter was out of bed in an instant. "Jumpin' jackrabbits, why didn't you say something sooner?" He hurriedly pulled on his uniform as he spoke. Both BJ and Charles started out the door, urging the colonel to move faster. "Where is the girl? Is she here? Why didn't you tell me the second she got into camp?"

BJ held the door open impatiently, his feet dancing in their attempts to carry him off to the OR where John was, no doubt, being cut open as he spoke. "There wasn't any time. The guy driving her in was so shocked we had to sedate him just to get his hands off of her wounds. Hawkeye was the first one to get to her. He's getting her prepped for surgery right now."

"Well, what in Sam Hill happened to her? Sniper fire?" The three men were suddenly in the compound, running as fast as their legs would carry them toward the hospital. Everything had happened so fast that Winchester and Hunnicutt were still wearing their robes.

"Hard to tell," Hunnicutt explained as they reached the door leading to pre-op. "Too much shrapnel to be from one sniper's rifle."

"I suspect it may have been a grenade from the looks of things," added the major. "The side of the jeep was so badly damaged by an explosion I'm surprised it was even able to function."

BJ shook his head fiercely as he pushed his way inside the makeshift hospital. "Remind me to send Rizzo a gift basket when she pulls through this."

"I would not be so optimistic, Hunnicutt. You saw her wounds. You know just as well as I what a difficult situation we are facing here." Charles' tone was soft, as if he was afraid to say what was on his mind. This was a curious and unnatural feeling for the Winchester.

Charles was wise to be cautious. As soon as the words left his mouth, BJ whirled around to face the major with his hand clenched into a fist. "Don't you ever say anything like that again, Winchester, or I'm not going to be responsible for what I do to you."

Colonel Potter was between them in an instant. "Hunnicutt, stand down. The last thing we need, the last thing John needs right now is dissension in the ranks. We have to pull together to get through this." He stood aside cautiously and watched as Hunnicutt slowly lowered his arm. Then Sherman turned to Winchester. "Much as I appreciate your complete and utter lack of feeling Winchester, I'd also be pleased as Punch if I never heard those words come out of your mouth again." Charles opened his mouth to speak and quickly thought the better of it. "Now, who's in there assisting Hawkeye?" BJ and Charles looked at each other and had no answer.

Again, BJ spoke first, "I didn't even think of it. It all happened so fast. Klinger was the only one around when she came in. He got the drugs for the driver and helped Hawk pull John in to pre-op."

"That's fine and Jim Dandy, but we're going to need more than a corpsman if we're going to perform an operation like this. Winchester, go wake Margaret."

Charles rolled his eyes up to the sky and let out a long, agonized moan. "Margaret!" he exclaimed. "I cannot believe we didn't even think to wake her." Without another word, Charles moved in the direction of Major Houlihan's tent. Hunnicutt and Potter looked after him, neither one envying his task.

Quickly, Potter recovered himself. "BJ, go and get the padre. I want this surgery to be safe as houses, which means we'll need the head honcho on our side." Hunnicutt nodded and was off and running before the colonel could get in another syllable. He drew in a sharp breath and headed inside, petrified of what would face him as soon as he entered the OR.

The smell of blood and isopropyl alcohol hit his nose the second he walked into pre-op. It was a smell that never quite left, even after weeks without wounded soldiers. It was a sickly, sterile smell that clung to everything: clothes, sheets, hair, skin. It was a smell that rarely meant a rosy future and a happy ending for everyone involved. Normal hospitals did not smell this way. It was a stench reserved strictly for the horrors of war.

Potter had no idea how bad John was torn up. Maybe, he thought, it was all an elaborate prank pulled by the staff to get him riled up after April Fools Day. Then the smell hit his nostrils again. There was nothing to laugh about in here. And this was certainly not a hoax. On the other side of the door, Sherman could hear the voices of Hawkeye and Klinger arguing. He took a minute to steady himself before the door swung open on the scene of one of his comrades fighting for her life on an operating table.


	2. Chapter 2

The OR was fully lit that night, and all but one table was vacant. The lamp directly above it cast a halo of light over the spot where John was lying. It gave the whole room the appearance of a circus. The main act? Life after death. A Lazarus technique from the far reaches of the western world perfected by decent, God-fearing men who only wanted to play God themselves.

John looked so very unlike herself lying there, her body covered by a red-soaked sheet. She had no colour in her face. Even her blonde hair had lost its radiance. Half of her waves were matted against her neck with blood in an unruly fashion. This was not the John that anyone knew. And yet, studying her face, it was more like her than she had ever been since coming to Korea.

"But sir," Klinger pleaded, wearing scrubs that had been haphazardly thrown on over his pajamas, "I'm no nurse. I can't help you with this one. As soon as I get her anesthetised, I'm toast. I got no idea what I'm doing after that part!" His dark features looked abnormally pale. Even his gargantuan nose seemed dwarfed by the size of his distress.

Hawkeye tugged furiously at the ends of his latex gloves. "Klinger, I don't give a damn what you say. The longer she sits here like this, the longer it's going to take to bring her back, and the less likely it is to happen. I'll talk you through the hard parts."

Klinger backed away slowly. "Hawkeye, if something bad was to happen to her because I screwed up, I'd never be able to live with myself. Let me go and get Major Houlihan—"

"No!" Hawkeye barked, stopping where he stood to turn his full wrath toward Klinger. "Margaret doesn't need to be here. Nobody needs to be here to watch this. You and I shouldn't even have to watch this. It's disgusting." Pierce began to pace like a caged animal. "It's worse than disgusting. It's despicable. It's detestable. It's not even unreal. Unreal would be a miracle. This is our friend, Max. This is the woman responsible for a good portion of my sanity, and yours. No one else should have to face the thought that she might not make it through the night."

The colonel's heart went out at the doctor's concern. "Pierce," he said, walking to the other surgeon and calmly resting his hand on the taller man's back, "she's going to make it through the night and many more to come. Hunnicutt's waking Mulcahy, and Winchester is alerting Major Houlihan as we live and breathe. We're going to have a full staff in here and we're all going to work our butts off to make sure that our girl pulls through this with flying colours."

Hawkeye looked down at his CO with weary, horror-filled eyes. He looked so much older and so much more tired as he stood next to the limp form of Jane Johnson. His black hair seemed that much greyer, and his eyes so much less blue than they'd ever seemed before. She'd come in unconscious, covered with blood. So much she was almost drowning in it. John was so small it didn't seem possible that all of it came out of her tiny little body. Still, there she was, laid out like any of the multitudes of soldiers that came through day after day. But John wasn't a soldier, and no one yet knew how to face that reality.

"Oh my!" The shocked voice of Father Mulcahy drew the attention of the room to the door where the horrified priest stood, BJ barely a step behind him. In the fevered haste of dressing, the Father still managed to throw on his stole. The purple vestment hung haphazardly from his neck over his grey Loyola sweatshirt. He held his small, worn Bible in his left hand and quickly made the sign of the cross over his chest with his right. He and Hunnicutt filed into the room to stand beside Colonel Potter. Klinger moved away from Hawkeye and joined the collective.

"We'd better get masks, Father," BJ suggested, his eyes never straying from where Johnson lay. Mulcahy nodded silently beside him, but neither man moved.

"I want you to scrub up, Hunnicutt," Potter said, breaking the silence that fell over them. Everyone but Klinger and Hawkeye still had yet to take in the whole image of the OR empty except for the lone casualty on the table. The one casualty who until now had never been on the receiving end of the best care anywhere.

Hunnicutt swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat. He looked at Hawkeye so far away at that moment. Only Pierce's eyes were visible over his surgical mask, but one glance was enough. Hawkeye was determined to do anything in his power to save Johnson. He could not fail. He would not. The same thought ran through the minds of both doctors: this had to just another injured person for them to fix. They had pulled apart and stitched up plenty of kids before, hadn't they? This was no different. Just another body. Just another life to save. But they were lying to themselves. There was no way to make this impersonal. Just yesterday they had all been in the Officer's Club drinking and laughing and making plans for their trips home. The end of the war seemed a long way off, but that never stopped them from planning. They were all excited to see their families, and to get back to their lives. Because they all knew they were going home.

The colonel's voice broke into BJ's thoughts. "Hunnicutt, the faster you scrub up, the faster we can get this started once Margaret gets here." BJ hurried off to wash with Klinger in tow. Potter slowly approached Hawkeye, wishing it was someone else's tush on the table in front of him. "What's been done so far?"

Hawkeye put his hands down on the table's edge and sighed, "Klinger and I started her on a unit of whole blood. Her vitals are low. She's lost a lot, and there's too much internal bleeding for us to wait much longer. Where's—"

Before he could finish, Margaret came rushing into the room followed closely by a distraught Winchester. It was clear that her hair had been in rollers; only half of it fell in loose curls, the rest was flat and blonde against her head. "I came as soon as I was decent," Margaret shouted. "Where is she?" Without bothering to take the sight in as the others had, the major made a beeline for the operating table and set her eyes on John. "She's so pale," she whispered, her voice trembling. Her mind didn't even address the sight of her nurse's blood. All that existed to Margaret was John's slack, colourless face. Still staring at John's closed eyelids and pallid lips, she spoke to Hawkeye. "Why wasn't I told the second she came in like this?" Her words threatened tears, but she didn't dare lift her eyes to meet anyone else's. There was no way she was going to crack. Margaret Houlihan had come to do a job, to fulfill her duty. Tonight, her duty was making sure her friend came back to them.

Potter responded before Hawkeye could open his mouth. "The boys took it up with me before. There wasn't enough time to call in the hens before getting the fox out of the coop. John needed blood fast; Hawkeye and Klinger here happened to be the only two who could get it done as fast as it needed to be."

Margaret gently touched her fingers against John's cheek before pulling back in alarm. "She's cold."

Hawkeye snapped into action, his movements wild. "God Damnit, check her pulse!" he demanded, touching John's skin himself. The major was right. Johnson was cold. "Margaret, Colonel, go scrub up. Charles, give me another unit of A Negative and follow everybody else." The staff flew into action. All but Father Mulcahy. He stood to the side, helpless to do anything but look on.

"Hawkeye," the Father implored, desperately clinging to his Bible, "is there anything I can do?"

The look on Hawkeye's face made the priest's heart leap into his throat. "Pray."

As Father Mulcahy lowered his head to his chest, the rest of the group came racing back into the room wearing masks and scrubs and looking for all the world like whimsical clowns. A sad juxtaposition in such a serious place. Hawkeye wasted no time. Winchester took Nurse Johnson's hand and pressed his fingers against her wrist, keeping his eyes on the clock as he counted the seconds passing by. "Charles how is her pulse?"

Winchester shook his head and gently released John's wrist. "Twenty-three."

Potter, who had been busying himself with a band he'd placed around John's arm, added gravely, "Her blood pressure is fifty-two over thirty-five." There was an audible gasp in the room.

"Klinger, what was her last reading?" Hawkeye demanded as Margaret began to set up the surgical instruments without being told. "Beej, get her under." Charles moved from his place at John's head and allowed BJ to replace him.

"Sixty over forty, sir," Klinger answered, bringing the anesthesia closer so that Hunnicutt could properly administer it to the patient.

"Jesus, if it drops any lower she'll go into a coma," Hawkeye muttered thinking no one could hear him. One devastated look from Margaret convinced him otherwise. He let out another, more frustrated sigh. "Put her out. I don't want her waking up in the middle of this." The other doctor took his order and placed the mask over John's mouth. Her ragged breathing calmed and eventually slowed to a more even pace. Everyone held his or her breath as Hawkeye peeled back the sheet and pulled off the temporary bandages to begin.

He had no idea where to start. Her entire right side was ripped up from her belly to her neck. It was a wonder she hadn't been struck directly in the throat. As far as he could tell, her lung was miraculously unpunctured. It was the most miniscule of favours, but considering the extent of the trauma it was enough to be thankful for. The blood masked most of the entry wounds. That was the first task.

"Sponge," Hawkeye said at last, decisively. "Dampen it. We need to clean away as much of this blood as we can so I can at least see what we're dealing with here."

The OR was absent of its usual banter. Had this been any other patient, Hawkeye would most likely have been singing by now, something tasteless given the location. "I've got you under my skin," he would warble. BJ would join in a short time later. Houlihan would have admonished them, Charles would have made a scathing remark per the two surgeons' taste in music, and Potter would have quieted them all down in the end. Klinger would bustle about from table to table, trying to keep things as light as possible, and Father Mulcahy would have no reason to be standing by until post-op, in case one of the patients needed moral or spiritual support. Most importantly, John would have been in the midst of it all, tossing insults back and forth with Charles, providing harmony for the Pierce-Hunnicutt duo, doing any of the abundance of things that made the 4077th home.

Margaret and Hawkeye were mute as they pressed their sponges against John's white skin. The blood came away easily, but more quickly came to the surface. "I need pressure on this to stop the bleeding, Margaret!" Hawkeye exclaimed, tossing the blood-soaked sponge into a pan Klinger held at the foot of the bed.

"She's not even open yet," Margaret countered, doing her best to curtail the bleeding. "If we spend too much time stopping the bleeding on the outside, we may lose the battle with the internal bleeding."She was right. Hawkeye looked helpless as he stood there, trying to figure out what to do next. Margaret knew. "Scalpel, doctor." She picked up the instrument from the tray and handed it to Pierce. He took it and marveled at it as if he'd never seen such a thing before.

Hawkeye brought the blade down and gently pressed it against John's skin at the place just below the bottom of her ribcage. He fought every urge he had to close his eyes and dragged the scalpel downward, watching as new blood welled up. "Sponge," he demanded, focusing all of his energy on the task at hand. Margaret followed the order immediately. All gazes were fixated on Hawkeye's fingers as he worked, grabbing forceps and plucking out pieces of metal. The dull tink-tink of shrapnel hitting the bottom of the collection pan was the only audible noise in the room aside from Hawkeye's odd command for suction, Metzenbaum scissors, and whatever else he needed. What felt like hours where only minutes passing. Soon, forty-five of those minutes had gone by, and John was still littered with metal.

BJ watched from his seat, fascinated by the sight before him. John was so still, so quiet. He couldn't even begin to pretend she was only sleeping. He checked her vitals like clockwork, dismayed by their inconsistency. Sometimes her pulse was strong. Other times, it was so weak Hunnicutt was barely able to feel it at all. Her blood pressure did not improve. It didn't weaken, either, but that was hardly anything to celebrate. Every now and then Hawkeye would look to BJ with the weight of worlds in his eyes. BJ, for his part, could do little else besides offering a comforting nod of his head.

"Clamp!" Hawkeye shouted suddenly, jerking the rest of the staff out of their stunned dumbness. "Margaret, clamp. I've got to stop that artery from bleeding." Margaret handed the instrument to the doctor, but he shook his head. "No, I need you to do it. Charles, get over here and help me with suction. I think I found where she's bleeding internally." The majors did as they were told, neither one bothering to pull rank. This was far more serious than petty army games. Charles had not uttered a single word suggesting he was above nursing duties. This caused about as much worry among the group as anything else that had happened that night. He took his place to Pierce's right and provided the suction the doctor had asked for. Charles glanced up at Margaret and met her eyes. A moment passed between them and was gone.

"There," Hawkeye spoke from between gritted teeth. "The shrapnel hit her stomach."

Colonel Potter came to the tableside. "How do you mean, Pierce? Did it knick the stomach, or go right through?"

"Punctured it at the edge. Which means we've got stomach acid in here we need to deal with." Hawkeye wiped his sleeve across his forehead. "Charles, keep that suction going. Is the clamp on tight, Margaret?" The blonde nurse nodded quickly. "Colonel Potter, I could really use a hand here."

"Whatever you need Pierce," the colonel said, stepping beside Margaret.

Hawkeye continued, "I need you to suture that artery while I get to work on the stomach. Take out any shrapnel you find on your way, but get that sucker closed."

Potter nodded. "Klinger, gloves."

"I'm on it." The Lebanese sergeant moved as fast as he had ever moved since joining the army, even counting his numerous attempts to escape. He produced another pair of latex gloves and slipped them over the colonel's able hands. Then he remembered something. The colour drained from his face and he swallowed loudly enough to be heard by the rest of the group. "Sir, what about Lyle?"

"Lyle who?" the colonel snapped, taking the silk Margaret adeptly handed to him to begin stitching up the holes.

BJ responded before Klinger had the chance, feeling a dead weight settle in his chest as he came to the same realisation as the sergeant. "Lyle Johnson. The only reason John ever went to the evac in the first place." He stomped his foot against the floor in sheer anger. "This is going to tear him apart."

"Good heavens, you're right," Father Mulcahy said softly. He had been so quietly standing by the staff had all but forgotten he was there. The Father was so badly shaken by the turn of events he doubted the tranquility of his presence. Perhaps it would have been better for him to wait outside.

"What was she doing coming back at this time of night anyway?" Margaret wondered out loud. Charles placed his hand over hers sympathetically. He, in turn, remained uncharacteristically taciturn.

"We'll ask her ourselves when she comes to," Mulcahy murmured in response. The colonel gave him a nod of gratitude before turning his attention back to Klinger.

"I didn't even think of the poor thing's brother," Potter admitted. "Get on the horn and call back to the 121st. Anybody gives you trouble, feel free to bring the phone in here so I can give them something to be troubled about."

"Yes sir." Klinger gave everyone in the room one last glance before running off to his office to make the call. Mulcahy closed in the ranks and the table was blocked from any outside view.


	3. Chapter 3

The desk was covered in a mountain of papers, but Max had no time to sort through them. He shoved them all to the side and began shoving wires into their respective holes and waiting to hear anything in response. He had the easier job in all of this, didn't he? Sure, he didn't have to stitch anyone back together, but the doctors sure as heck didn't have to make the phone call he was about to make. How would Lyle react when he got the news that his little sister whom he'd no doubt been talking to only minutes before she left was now a charge of the doctors of the MASH? A MASH she'd written home about so many times the entire family could smell the stench of death and terror every time they opened one of her letters. Finally, a voice picked up on the other end.

"Sparky?" Klinger inquired.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" Sparky replied, his voice thick with sleep.

"Unfortunately. Listen, I need you to patch me through to the 121st Evac right now."

Sparky laughed on his end. "Nobody's going to pick up this time of night, Klinger. If you're still bucking for that section eight, this is the way to do it."

"I don't have time to kid around," Klinger said, impatient. "We've got a nurse up here who's turned into a junkyard of shrapnel and I need to get a hold of her brother who is _at_ the 121st ASAP, if you catch my drift."

There was no witty retort from Sparky that time. "Sure, you got it Klinger." The line was quiet except for a series of clicks. After a minute or so, Sparky was back on the phone. "All right, Max, I got the temporary clerk on the line for you. I gotta warn you, he ain't in a good mood."

"I got twenty bucks says I'm in a worse one," Klinger said in response.

"Okay, here you go." The line was quiet again.

"121st Evac Hospital, Corporal Orson speaking."

Klinger let out a breath in relief. "Corporal, this is Sergeant Max Klinger from the 4077th. I need to speak to a Doctor Lyle Johnson right away."

"Would that be_Captain_ Doctor Lyle Johnson?" an disgruntled Corporal Orson said in response. "Because if it is, I'm afraid the Captain is sleeping right now. You know, like I want to be."

"Listen, pal, I don't want to be awake any more than you do," Klinger's voice suddenly became very harsh. He really didn't have the patience tonight to deal with this corporal. "I'll go get my CO in here right now to demand that you get Captain Johnson for me, but he might get a little testy seeing it how it's almost four in the morning and he's busy suturing an artery inside the captain's baby sister as we speak. Maybe _then_ you'd be awake enough to get the good doctor on the phone."

Klinger could almost hear the corporal squirming in his chair. "I'll go and wake him."

"Wait!" Klinger called out before Orson put the phone down. "Don't say a word about his sister. I want him to hear it from the folks taking care of her, not from the guy nudging him awake."

"Whatever you say," Orson mumbled, setting the phone aside.

Klinger sat there alone going over the conversation in his head. How exactly was he supposed to deliver news like this to a guy he actually knew? It was one thing to write letters or make calls to people and places he'd never heard of and had no connection to. This man, he'd had lunch with. Most of the staff had played cards with him. John would sit up at night reading his letters detailing the follow-up for the patients sent off by the 4077th, something he wasn't required to do but had done all the same to make the effort to end the war effort more bearable. What could Klinger possibly say that wouldn't break the guy's heart?

He didn't have time enough to decide. Before he knew it, the deep baritone of Lyle Johnson was on the line. "This is Captain Johnson." Curiously, his voice did not sound laden with sleep.

"Lyle, it's Max Klinger at the 4077th."

Lyle sighed softly on the other end. "Listen Max, whatever my sister said to you— forget about it, okay? I've gotten enough grief for it already."

"Uh, I don't mean to ruin a perfectly bad mood," Max began, "but I'm not calling about anything your sister said."

Lyle snorted. "Hah. I'm surprised she's not running her big mouth over there. She ran it plenty when she was still here. She is just so unbearable when she's up on her moral high horse." Klinger was beginning to feel less and less sympathy for Lyle with every word the captain spoke. "Does she treat everybody the same way she treats me? One lousy night with a nurse and you'd think I was Doctor Mengele. She's threatening to call my wife unless I do, and to tell our mother about everything. Don't you think I know what I did was wrong? I mean, you'd think she'd never faced a single trouble in her life the way she was carrying on over here." By now, Max was seething. "So I packed up her things and told her to come back when she was feeling less sanctimonious. I'm surprised she even listened. I love her, but she is so thick-headed sometimes—"

"I've heard just about enough out of you!" Klinger all but screamed into the receiver. "You think I'd call you this early if I didn't have a damn good reason? The hell with your affairs, Captain. Your sister is lying on a surgical table right now with tubes running in and out of her to keep her from slipping into a coma. We've got all of our surgeons in there right now working on her because her belly's so full of shrapnel if she died and was buried tonight you could find her grave with a stinking metal detector!"

The silence from Lyle's end was deafening. Klinger felt a terrible stab of remorse. He hadn't meant to break the news like that. The captain's rant had just been so disrespectful. But Lyle hadn't known about what had happened to John. He had no way of knowing, and he had no intention of being so insensitive about how insensitive his sister had been.

"Oh my God," Lyle choked at last. His words were heavy with tears. He repeated, "Oh my God," and was quiet. "I don't… Is she okay?" He suddenly sounded very small, so much like a child that Max felt like crying himself.

"It doesn't look too good," Klinger said, his voice cracking.

"What happened?" Lyle asked. He was obviously crying now. No power on the earth could have concealed that fact.

Klinger tried to swallow his emotions but didn't have much luck. "We don't know exactly. The jeep bringing her back was hit by something on the passenger side. The driver barely made it back to camp, and John… Well, she was cut up something badly."

"This is my fault," Lyle marveled. He was whispering into the receiver. Max wanted nothing more than to reach out and console the weeping man, but he could offer nothing over the phone but bad news. "I told her to take off. I didn't know she would actually go. I didn't know this was going to happen. How could I know? She just made me so angry." He paused before letting out a long wail. "Oh God, the last thing I said to her was 'I'd be happy if you'd wind up in a ditch somewhere.' I killed her, Max." He sobbed openly now, heaving his words into the phone as if he had nowhere else to throw them.

"You cut that out, Lyle. She's not dead. And she ain't gonna be. We've got the finest surgeons in Korea—heck, in the whole world—working on her right now. She is going to be fine."


	4. Chapter 4

Pandemonium.

"Hawkeye, I've lost the pulse!" BJ shouted.

"No!" Hawkeye screamed, slamming his instrument down on the tray. "I am not losing her. Beej, air bag." Margaret and Sherman jumped back to let Hawkeye at John's chest. He slammed his hands down over her heart and began pumping on her rib cage. Ten pulses. Charles suctioned up the excess fluid that welled up in her stomach cavity. BJ placed the air bag over John's mouth and pushed it twice. Hawkeye pumped again, his actions furious. He heard the sickening crack of a rib and kept pounding. "Damnit, John, you're not getting out of here that easily."

Potter approached Hawkeye as BJ squeezed the bag again. Twice. "Son, I think you might want to—"

"Don't you say it, Colonel. Don't you _dare_ say it!" Somewhere nearby Father Mulcahy had opened his Bible and began mumbling in Latin. "Shut up, Father. She doesn't need her Last Rites!"

"Pierce, please get a hold of yourself!" Charles exclaimed at last. His eyes were misty, his throat was tight. He held the suction device with shaking hands. "The Father is doing the only thing he knows he can do right now and you are behaving like an animal!"

Hawkeye wheeled on Charles and pointed a bloody and accusatory finger at him. "Don't you tell me what to do, Winchester. Unlike you, I don't want to hear anybody preparing my friend's immortal soul for its final destination."

"How dare you insinuate I am not at all concerned for John," Charles' voice boomed with anger. "I am absolutely terrified that you will lose control of yourself and foul up this surgery if you carry on like this. Perhaps if you were more level-headed Nurse Johnson would have a better chance—"

"You son of a bitch, Charles," Hawkeye growled. He looked about ready to strangle the other man.

Colonel Potter had his hands tied with the artery, but he had no problem screaming at the top of his lungs at his surgeons. "Both of you shut your yaps and get back to work! The only person you're hurting in all of this is John here. Do you want to make the phone call to her mother back home explaining that the one chance we had to save her was botched on account of a fistfight? I'll have you both shoveling dirt at Leavenworth for the rest of your lives if you screw this one up!"

Hunnicutt raised his voice above the rest, screaming his throat raw as he did so. "Don't stop pumping! I'm still getting nothing!" Sweat dripped down his forehead and off of his chin. It took every ounce of self-control he had to keep from breaking down in tears.

"Margaret," Hawkeye commanded. "Get back here. I'm going to massage her heart." A rib spreader had done its job earlier in the operation. Hawkeye reached into John's chest cavity and cradled her still heart in his hands. It was almost too much for him to bear. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes as he madly manipulated the muscle. It was tiny, and so very delicate. He literally held his friend's life in his hands. And he was losing it. Slowly, minute by minute, his girl was slipping away. She'd been there through all of it. From the beginning.

He remembered the first time he ever set eyes on her. She sat alone in the mess tent with a pulp novel in her hands. John had beautiful hands. They were soft and pale, but they were strong enough to spread ribcages and nimble enough to navigate the intricacies of sewing together pieces of the circulatory system. She had wanted to be a doctor, but her dream was interrupted by the war. The police action. Because it wasn't a war unless they called it a war. It was the first thing they'd ever talked about.

John was married then. It drove Hawkeye crazy. But the more they got to know each other, the more he respected and admired her. The more he came to depend on her. Her gentle manner, her way with words, her wicked sense of humour that was more like his own than he cared to admit. Through Henry, Trapper, Frank, and Radar, John had remained his constant. And when she divorced, he was there for her. She needed him the same way he did her. He loved her in a way he'd never loved any other woman. It wasn't romantic. To romanticise it would be to cheapen it. It was the kind of love one had for family, and yet it was more. It was more because familial love was almost engrained in nature. The kind of love he felt for Jane Johnson was something that had grown, and only continued to grow the longer they knew one another.

At that moment, Hawkeye would have given anything to have her back and smiling at him.

BJ stared at his bunkmate. How surreal it all was. John and Hawkeye played poker together. It seemed so insignificant before. Now that Hawkeye was caressing John's heart—her actual, physical heart—would he know things about her that nobody else could possibly know? Would he recognise it when she bluffed because he had touched her in a place more intimate than anybody should ever have to be touched? At that moment, Hunnicutt realised he would now never be as close to John as Hawkeye. It was a stupid, petty thought, and BJ was wracked with guilt because of it, but he felt it all the same. Hawkeye would be the one to save her. And she would never be the same again. Sure, she'd look the same and sound the same. Probably walk and talk the same. But somewhere on the inside, Hawkeye would leave a mark.

The two surgeons' eyes met. They worked in perfect rhythm as if they had been rehearsing the act for years. In, out, squeeze, rub. Again. Again. Again. Hawkeye watched the shadows of emotions pass over BJ's face. He hardly betrayed anything, even to his best friend. Closely guarded secrets. Hawkeye, on the other hand, was like an open book. The pain was almost etched into his face as he massaged the heart, urging his friend to will herself back to life. The thought stopped him cold. He hadn't realised until that precise moment why his hands were in her chest to begin with.

"She's dead."

"Hawkeye, don't," BJ whispered. If Pierce let himself believe it, he would give up and John would be lost to them forever.

Hawkeye's movements were mechanical, routine. He looked down at his dead friend and tried to repaint her face. Had she always been so pale? Had her lips always been that white? He put colour in her cheeks. She always had such flushed cheeks. So full of life. This wasn't John. He wanted her back.

"I need adrenaline. I don't care who gets it. Just give me the adrenaline now!" Hawkeye dictated. Father Mulcahy was the first to make the move. He was amazed at how accustomed to the OR he had become since arriving at the 4077th. He found the adrenaline with very little trouble and passed it to Margaret when he reached the table. She readied the syringe and handed it careful to Hawkeye.

"Beej, are you ready with that bag?" Pierce asked. Hunnicutt gave him a thumbs-up and the only smile he could manage. "Good."

"I hope to God this works." He lowered the needle to the pink flesh of the heart and shoved it in with every bit of strength he had. He could almost feel the adrenaline rushing into John's body like it was an extension of him. The room held its breath as every last drop of medicine escaped into her. The danger of such a move was indescribable. Not only did they risk sending her into shock with such a jolt to her system, they also risked bringing her out from under the anesthesia while she was still cut open. But Hawkeye felt they had no choice, and nobody dared to say anything to the contrary.

The heart suddenly gave a mighty thrust forward. It thudded furiously as BJ squeezed air into her lungs. They expanded almost to the point of bursting. He did it once more, and finally Johnson drew in a breath on her own. Even unconscious, her body gasped for air as if resurfacing from somewhere deep underwater.

"I feel it!" BJ cried out, tossing the air bag aside and almost jumping with joy. "I've got a pulse. It's weak, but it's there!" The rest of the group heaved a collective sigh.

"Come on, people, we're not out of the woods yet."


	5. Chapter 5

The last piece of shrapnel dropped into the tin with a dull thud. Outside the world was finally stretching its sleep-heavy limbs. It was finally dawn. The first rays of light slid tentatively over the camp as if attempting to give the doctors more time to stave off death. But they had already done everything in their power. They had mended the interior wounds. They had stopped the bleeding. Now they had nothing to do but wait.

The sunlight had not yet hit the windows of the OR. Hawkeye ripped off his gloves and threw them into the tin with the rest of the shrapnel he had pulled from John's body. He turned away from everyone at the table and spoke with his back to them. "Margaret, will you close for me?"

"Yes, doctor," Margaret agreed, not bothering to point out the fact that there were three other perfectly capable surgeons at hand that could have completed the task as well.

Father Mulcahy beamed with delight and kissed the cover of his Good Book. "Hallelujah! Hawkeye, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you just pulled off a miracle!"

"You're darn right Padre!" Colonel Potter clapped the priest on his back and glanced around at his companions. Charles looked half-past dead and about to keel over. Nobody else was faring much better. He cleared his throat to make an announcement. "I suggest everyone hit the sack post-haste. We've still got shifts to think about today." People nodded and grumbled and headed toward the scrub room to struggle out of their operating gear before returning to their tents for a few hours of sleep. As Hawkeye passed the colonel's path, Sherman caught his arm. "Listen, Hawkeye, you did a hell of a job in here. I'll cover for you today. We're not expecting any influx of casualties until next week. Why don't you take some time to recuperate?" For his part, Hawkeye said nothing. He only twitched his head in the faintest of nods and followed his colleagues through the door. Only Father Mulcahy and the colonel remained at John's side.

The nurse assigned to post-op duty that morning poked her head into the OR after Margaret and the surgeons had left. The glaring lights had made her curious as to who or what was in the operating room. "Oh, Colonel Potter," she said, slightly confused by the presence of her CO wearing scrubs so early in the morning. "I didn't realise you were—" She gasped when she saw Johnson stretched out on the table with an IV and a full unit of blood strapped to her arm. "Oh my God, what happened?" The horrified woman asked, looking as if she'd just seen a ghost. Any lost time during John's surgery and she very well might have been. She rushed to the table to take a closer look.

"We're not too sure ourselves Baker," Potter explained. "She decided to come back from her trip to the evac a day early and she showed up a few hours ago with more holes in her than a golf course." The Father shot Potter an admonishing look. He was quick to apologise. "Don't mean to sound callous, Father. Just trying to explain what went on."

"I understand, Colonel. I just worry that the matter may need some delicate attending to when discussing it with those who were kept in the dark." Mulcahy shrugged his shoulders lightly and gave a sympathetic look to Nurse Baker who tried to hold back her tears as she watched John breathe. He unconsciously fingered the hem of his stole as he looked on.

"I'll leave it to you then," the Colonel acquiesced. "Baker, I'll need you and the rest of this morning's staff to move Johnson into post-op. Set her up away from the rest of the patients. I'd prefer it if they didn't recognise her as one of the ladies who usually helps out around here. Let the padre break the news to the others."

"Of course, sir." Baker started toward the door but stopped. "Is she going to pull out of it soon?"

"I wish I knew," sighed the colonel. "I really wish I did." With that, he walked past Baker and Mulcahy and into the scrub room where his battle-weary surgeons and exhausted head nurse were doing their best to wash away the morning's activities.

Everyone was quiet as they pulled off their surgical garb and threw the pieces into the laundry bins near the sink. They all seemed so dazed as they ran their hands under the faucets for the third and fourth time. But no amount of water in the world was going to clean them of the memories they now shared. Potter untied his mask and tossed it aside. Up until now, his own adrenaline had prevented him from feeling the weariness that now ached throughout his body. His limbs ached with lack of sleep, and he could feel a headache the size of Texas beginning to form right behind his eyes. He rubbed his temples gently as he made his way to the sink. "Mighty fine work people," he said simply, breaking the silence.

Charles slid down the wall and sat on the bench opposite the exit door, closing his eyes and tilting back his head. "Yes, and a good time was had by all, I'm sure." He drew in a slow breath through his nose and held it. "Provided she pulls through this, I'd willingly go through the same hell again."

"So would I," Margaret concurred, running her fingers through the lost cause that her hair had become. It was so inconsequential that the major couldn't even remember why she had worn rollers in the first place. She remembered the sight of John's hair sticky with blood. It was vivid. The blood so red. She shook the images out of her head. "I've got post-op duty in a few hours. I'm going to try and get some rest. If anything changes…"

"We'll let you know the very instant," the colonel finished. Margaret gestured her thanks and left.

"I think I will allow myself to do the same." Charles elegantly rose to his feet, forcing his external composure to remain that of a true Winchester. On the inside, he was trembling so fiercely it was a wonder he could stand at all. In his mind's eye he was receiving a visual assault, a gory slideshow of John's insides. And through it all, he could only think of his brother, and the excruciating emptiness Charles felt following his death. How close had Lyle Johnson come to losing his dear sister? The thought of never seeing his beloved Honoria again made the blood run cold in his veins. "Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me." He walked toward the exit. His body was begging for sleep, but Charles dreaded the fateful moment his head hit the pillow. There would be no rest for him tonight. Even in his dreams he would not escape the grim reality of mortality.

"Hunnicutt, Pierce," the colonel raised his hand to both of them. "I'll be in my quarters 'til further notice so you'll know where to find me. I'm taking the first shift this morning and it starts in half an hour. I'll let you know how she's doing as the day goes along."

"Sure thing Colonel," BJ raised his hand in a similar gesture and followed Potter with his eyes as he left the room. "And then there were two," he mused, turning his gaze to the stoic Hawkeye who now stood in the doorway leading back to OR where the morning staff was busy moving John into post-op. Pierce watched with a nagging pain in his chest as Father Mulcahy tried to give an explanation to the obviously distraught nurses who ran in and out of the room. From his side of the glass, the explanations were wordless. They clarified nothing. From the bewildered looks on the nurses' faces, they offered very little on the other side as well. Without warning, Hawkeye turned around and stormed out of the scrub room

"Hey!" BJ called, running out after him. The other doctor's strides were long and feverishly paced. BJ had to jog just to catch up. "Hawk, wait up." He tried to put his hand on his friend's shoulder, but Hawkeye wrenched it out of his grip. They stood in the middle of the compound in the pink light of the early morning. All around them the camp was gradually crawling to life. It was disorienting how little life as a whole had changed considering the ordeal they had just been through.

"I don't want to see anybody right now." Hawkeye neither slowed down nor bothered to look at Hunnicutt.

BJ was not easily deterred. "Come on, it's just me."

Hawkeye nearly laughed in response. "Oh, just you? You are the last person I want to see out of all the anybodies in this camp." He finally stopped and turned to face the other man.

"How's that?" Hunnicutt inquired. His incredulity was overshadowed only by his sudden indignation.

"I saw the way you were looking at me in there," Hawkeye accused. "One wrong move and you'd never have forgiven me. Do you know what it's like to have your best friend put that kind of pressure on you?" The few people walking by did their best to ignore the developing conflict, but the fight was fast becoming an unsightly ear and eyesore. And that was quite an accomplishment considering one of the two didn't exist.

"Are you out of your mind? I was watching you the same as everyone else in that room!" BJ asserted, walking around Hawkeye in order to block his path. There was no way he was getting away with this level of idiotic sanctimony. They had all been through the same hell back in that operating room, felt the same devastation when John's heart gave out even for those few short minutes. Hawkeye's hands may have done most of the work, but without the help of BJ, Margaret, Potter, and yes, even Charles, that work would have been impossibly futile. BJ fumed. What made Hawkeye so much more outstanding? Only that he had demanded the job he now resented. "And maybe I should remind you that you're the one who insisted on operating anyhow!"

"That's rich, Hunnicutt," Hawkeye shot back, his voice rising with his temper. "Who else could have done it? Charles, with his 'a Winchester does not care' attitude? He wouldn't have invested half as much in it as I did." And what the hell did BJ care anyway? He hadn't wet his hands with her blood. He hadn't felt her insides. He hadn't cradled her heart. As far as Hawkeye was concerned, Hunnicutt had it easy. A little anesthesia here, a few vitals checks there. Nothing a well-trained Doberman couldn't have handled.

"Maybe half as much is better than too much." BJ's words dripped with condescension.

"Yeah, what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Hawkeye was so close to hitting BJ he had to hold his arms stiff against his sides to keep from throwing the first punch.

BJ lowered his voice and leaned in. The more people who passed by, the harder it was to keep from drawing their attention, try as they may to walk on without giving the feud a second glance. "You almost cracked in there," he warned, barely louder than a whisper. "If you'd lost it we'd never have seen John against outside of a casket. _That's _ what you saw when I was staring at you. Concern, not pressure. Charles said it, but we were all thinking it. You let yourself get too involved."

Hawkeye turned and started walking away. He did absolutely nothing wrong. He could taste BJ's betrayal in his mouth, thick and bitter. If BJ thought caring about the well being of his patients was wrong, then maybe it was time for him to hang up his stethoscope. Of course, what did he have to worry about? He had the luxury of caring too much for a family thousands of miles away. So what if a patient didn't make it? As long as he got to go home to his wife and kid at the end of the day, he barely had to lift a finger to make himself feel all right. "I don't need to hear this."

BJ followed him so closely he was almost walking on the back of Hawkeye's shoes. "I think you do. You're not God, Hawkeye. You're not even God's gift. You're just as dumb and useless as the rest of us." BJ grabbed a hold of Hawkeye's shoulder and physically stopped him from walking any farther.

Hawkeye offered him a spiteful chuckle and turned his gaze to BJ's hand. "You don't want to do that."

BJ gave a smile that matched the acrid nature of Hawkeye's. "Have it your way, pal." He let go of his fellow surgeon and headed back in the direction of the Swamp seething with anger.

"That's right," Hawkeye muttered after him, "go back and hide in your letters. Coward." But who was the real coward?

Something about what BJ had said cut Hawkeye to the quick. Hell, everything about what BJ said had cut. He had come so close to losing John. Closer than he cared to admit. And the truth was, it scared him. It scared him to know that something, anything he had done could have ruined her. Maybe he waited too long before opening. Maybe he hadn't sutured fast enough or strong enough. And even though the worst was over, she wasn't out of the clear. There was still ample time for one of his mistakes to kill her. It was so much easier being furious at everyone else than to place the blame where it was due.

_  
"One wrong move and you'd never have forgiven me."_

No. One wrong move and he'd never have forgiven himself.


	6. Chapter 6

Klinger awoke at his desk with the phone still cradled against his ear. How long had he been out? He certainly didn't remember falling asleep on the job. If anything, he would have cut the job short and found some excuse to finish it the morning before heading off to bed. He searched his brain for recollections of the previous night. He remembered purposely overlooking a pile of paperwork, turning off the lights, crawling under his blankets, and drifting off to sleep, but that chain of events didn't exactly place him in the office chair on the telephone at o-seven-hundred hours. Had he been sleepwalking? Sleep talking? Sleep _telephoning_? Then it hit him like a ton of bricks. The memories came rushing back and started replaying in Technicolor. It was a film Klinger gladly would have missed.

He jerked upright, wiping a spot of drool from one of the reports underneath him. "Lyle?" he asked into the phone. No response. Of course there was no response. It was difficult enough to keep a connection when one was awake. Asleep, there was hardly any chance at all. Klinger couldn't even remember the end of the conversation he'd had with Captain Johnson. He had just been so tired. But he recalled enough to start piecing things together.

There had been a fight. Not quite sibling rivalry, but something altogether less trivial. _"One lousy night with a nurse."_ That was the ticket. Lyle had had an affair. A short one, apparently, but an affair enough to send John into a frenzy over it. That was why they had fought. And why John had threatened to call her sister-in-law. And why Lyle had sent her packing in the middle of the night a full day early.

"Jeez," Klinger mumbled under his breath, "the one time she listens to her brother and look what happens."

Lyle had blamed himself for all of it. Even after Max assured him that John's life was in more than capable hands he wouldn't hear any of it. Klinger had stayed on the line with him for more than an hour before he just couldn't hold his head up anymore. Maybe Lyle had done the same. Maybe Lyle was waking up at the clerk's desk at the evac hospital at that moment wondering how he got there in the first place. Then again, if Klinger were to receive news that one of his uncles had the flu, nonetheless had nearly blown away by a grenade, he knew he would stand no chance of sleep.

Again, Klinger went through the motions of plugging in wires in their proper places, gripping the phone so tightly his olive knuckles were almost white. Nothing happened. He tried again and again, but something was interrupting whatever limited connection they had with Army HQ. "Aw, come on," he begged, trying one last time to get through to Sparky. He heard a few rapid clicks in his ear and then dead air. "Piece of junk!" he exclaimed, slamming the phone down in its nifty Army-regulated canvas.

Now he had no way of getting through to Lyle and no way of knowing how the man was coping. Though getting through to the captain at that moment probably wouldn't have done an ounce of good. After all, Klinger didn't even know how the surgery had turned out. Nobody had come to tell him the results. His heart started beating faster. He might have slept through her last hours! It was an awful thought. He imagined Father Mulcahy standing over John making the sign of the cross as the rest of the doctors looked on, their cloth scrub caps pressed over their hearts in sorrow. Goodbye John, hello bereavement. No. It wasn't possible. Klinger had made a promise to Lyle on behalf of the surgeons. John was going to be all right. He felt his pulse slow and the images of the Last Rites were replaced by thoughts of her sleeping peacefully in post-op as the doctors and nurses looked on and whispered, "What a miracle," to each other. No news was good news.

Klinger pushed himself up from his seat and strolled to Colonel Potter's office. The lights were off and the colonel was nowhere in sight. Just as well, Klinger thought. Without the colonel looking over his shoulder, he could simply ignore the morning reports until sometime in the afternoon and make himself busy putting together the story for when he finally got through to Lyle Johnson. Turning abruptly, Max grabbed his hat from on top of the filing cabinet and walked through the swinging doors into the compound.

The camp now showed promising signs of life. Men and women in fatigues darted across the open area to attend to their morning rituals. There was the customary line at the men's showers, and the customary line of men waiting to look into the nurses' showers. People shuffled in and out of the mess tent complaining about the food as usual. The only person conspicuously absent was Nurse Johnson. It was an otherwise perfect morning.

The sight of Father Mulcahy leaving post-op further lifted Klinger's spirits. The priest had retired his stole and Bible and was now dressed as he normally was, without the pretension of his funerary duties. "Ah, Klinger!" the Father waved to the sergeant and picked up his pace.

"Tell me it's good news, Father," Klinger said, his brown eyes glittering with anticipation.

Mulcahy smiled. "Oh, it's good all right. And pretty soon it'll be the best news we hear this month."

Klinger quirked an eyebrow in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Mulcahy started, putting his hands on his hips and gazing up into the sunny sky. He watched as the few clouds floated by, grateful for the beauty of the day that followed the harrowing darkness of the night. "She came through the surgery just fine. Now all we have to do is wait for her to wake up."

The devastation washed over Max from head to foot. "How long is that gonna take? When I get her brother back on the phone, I'm have to tell him something better than 'We're waiting for her to wake up!'" He drew his hands down along the sides of his face. "Boy, just when you think things are as lousy as they can get."

Mulcahy interrupted him, lowering his eyes from the sky and meeting Klinger's. "Now listen, things could be a lot," he paused, searching for the right words, "well, _lousier_ than they are. The fact that we have something to look forward to is a phenomenon all on its own. I myself plan on saying a few extra 'Glory Be'-s tonight in thanks."

Klinger hung his head. "I know, Father, I just wish I had something more to give Lyle. He was so beat up over everything last night."

"I can imagine," Mulcahy said, his thoughts turning to his own sister.

"No, I don't think you can." Klinger leaned in conspiratorially. He looked to the left and to the right to ensure that nobody was within earshot. Father Mulcahy did the same, though he hadn't the slightest idea why. "Listen, if I tell you something as a priest, you're not gonna come right out and judge it, right?"

"It's not my place to judge, Klinger, you know that," the Father replied.

Klinger nodded to himself. "Okay. Here it is: Lyle's the whole reason John came back last night in the first place."

"I'm not sure I understand," Mulcahy spoke softly, feeling the prying eyes of the camp beginning to focus on them. He stepped in closer.

"I'm sure I'm telling it all wrong, but this is what Lyle told me." Max felt in some way like he was betraying Captain Johnson by revealing his affair to the priest, but the information was too much of a burden on Klinger's conscience. "I guess he had some kind of fling with a nurse that John found out about, only she wasn't so keen on the idea."

"Infidelity," the Father said decisively.

"Yeah, plus the cheating on his wife," Klinger agreed. "Anyway, John threatened to do all kinds of things, like call up the missus and tell her everything unless Lyle did it first. Well, she wouldn't lay off." This was the part of the story Klinger was the most apprehensive to reveal. It may not have been Mulcahy's place to judge, but there was a good chance he would not see it the same way when it came to placing blame. "And when Lyle'd finally had enough of it he packed her bags and told her to get lost."

"He did _what_?" Mulcahy's priestly composure crumbled to the ground at his feet. His voice leapt up nearly an entire octave. "What was he thinking, sending anybody, least of all his sister, out on those roads at night?"

"I don't know what he was thinking, Father!" Mulcahy's reaction prompted a similar breach of octave in Klinger. "I'm sure he just wasn't thinking about the consequences."

"You bet your bottom he wasn't thinking about the consequences of his actions!" Father Mulcahy was fuming. The fact that he had come so close to cursing worried Klinger. Though Mulcahy was a man of a gentle disposition, he had something of a temper when pushed too far. "I'm going to get on the phone right now and give that jerk of a captain a piece of my mind," he threatened. Klinger threw up his hands in protest.

"Oh no, Father. Please, he's so torn about this as it is. I hate to see a grown man cry, and listening to it for over an hour was no picnic." Mulcahy stared at Max in doubt. "Honest, if he knew I told you, and you called and told him off, I don't know if he could take it. He might lose it. Or worse." The soft, pleading look in Klinger's eyes seemed enough to placate the Father temporarily.

"You're right, Klinger," Mulcahy admitted, clasping his hands together in front of him. "Perhaps it would be a little hasty to berate Captain Johnson after last night's news. I'm certain he's having more trouble forgiving himself than any of us are having doing the same."

"I wouldn't be too quick to make that guess." The priest gave him a quizzical face. "The guess that we're having trouble forgiving him, I mean," Max quickly explained. "What I mean is, well, you're the first person I told about this. Heck, you're the first person I've seen this morning since falling asleep on the phone last night. I tried to call back, but the lines are down. All I wanna do now is get my ducks in a row so I have something to tell the captain when I get through."

"I understand," Mulcahy said in his boyish way. "Would you like me to try and reach the lad while you talk to the doctors? You missed quite an event, after all."

"Gee, Father, that would be great!" Klinger replied exuberantly. "This really means a lot. I owe you one!" Max gave a pleased wave and a grin to Father Mulcahy and jogged past him to the Swamp.

Inside the tent, BJ and Charles rested in their respective cots, neither one of them able to get any sleep. It was a mess, as usual, except for the corner occupied by Charles. While BJ had taken simply to tossing and turning in his efforts, Charles had given up and was now compulsively reading and re-reading old letters from his dear Honoria. Hawkeye had not come back since leaving the scrub room, but to Charles it was all for the best. With the most abrasive element of the trio of doctors somewhere on the lam, Winchester had the peace necessary to gather his thoughts. Were it not for Hunnicutt trying so desperately to capture his forty winks on the other side of the tent, the Boston man would have submerged himself in the concertos of Mozart until he was called to his duties in post-op. As it was, he was forced to make due with the graceful script of his sister's handwriting.

The hard rapping of someone's knuckles on the wooden frame of the tent shattered the assumed silence of the room. "Sirs? Permission to enter?" Klinger's distinctly nasal voice called out from the other side of the mesh. Then again, it was hard to have a voice of much resonance when one's nose comprised the greater portion of one's body.

BJ groaned and rolled over on his bed. "Permission denied. Get lost, Klinger."

Winchester had to agree. "Yes, please allow us this short respite before barraging us with whatever nonsense it is you've come to peddle."

"Exactly what he said." BJ pulled his blanket up over his head and tried again to settle in. Klinger, for his part, was not willing to be so easily dismissed.

Max pushed open the door and walked inside much to the doctors' chagrin. "I was only asking as a formality. I'm too much out of the loop to be left out of the tent too." His eyes darted from Charles to BJ to Hawkeye's empty bunk. "Say, where's Captain Pierce?"

Hunnicutt slowly drew the blanket down around his neck. His expression was less than pleasant. "Oh, he's busy brushing up on his martyrdom." The tone of his voice cautioned Klinger not to push the issue any further. Luckily his curiosity was cut short by the interruption of Major Winchester.

"Max," Charles drawled, carefully setting Honoria's letters down on his makeshift nightstand. "Not to be rude, but why, precisely, are you here?"

"Did you two kooks forget everything that happened last night?" Klinger asked incredulously.

Charles gave the briefest of chuckles and cleared his throat. "No, we have not forgotten, try as we may to put the events out of our minds. Thank you so much, however, for resetting the trajectory of my thoughts and once again drawing attention to the situation at hand."

"Will you two just shut up?" BJ, at last giving up his aspirations of slumber, sat up and threw his blanket down to his ankles. "All I want is a few minutes of uninterrupted shut-eye. I hit the sack so hard I've got bruises and you are ruining my chances of drifting off before this war is over!" The reaction somewhat startled Charles and Max. Unless he'd recently received bad news from home, nothing seemed able to ruffle BJ's feathers. In fact, it had been a point of contention between Pierce and Hunnicutt on several occasions. Whereas Hawkeye was quick to let his emotions get the best of him, BJ was given to level-headedness in almost all situations. To see him throw a tantrum after such a short interaction was puzzling, to say the least.

"Listen," Klinger started, taking a seat on Hawkeye's cot. The air was warming the higher the sun climbed in the sky. Such a perfect day wasted on anxieties. "I just want the four-one-one on what went on last night."

"Before we tell you anything, did you get a hold of Lyle?" Apparently having surrendered to the fact that sleep was not going to be part of his day's itinerary, BJ rolled out of bed and stretched beside his cot in his shorts and t-shirt. Today he was grateful for the olive drab of regulation clothing. There was no red to be found. Even though they went hand-in-hand in this hellish place, he'd learned once in his childhood that they were opposites on the colour wheel. If green was the opposite of red, he would gladly wear it the rest of his civilian life if only to never have to face the colour of blood again.

"I got a hold of him all right," Klinger said, feeling the same tightness in his chest that he felt when talking to Father Mulcahy not ten minutes before. He didn't say anything more.

"Let's have it, man," Charles commanded after a moment had passed. He and BJ glanced sideways at each other and waited for Klinger to go on.

"I already told Father Mulcahy, why don't you ask him?' Max whined, his shoulders sagging forward. He pulled off his cap and tugged at it in his lap.

Another glance passed between the two doctors before BJ spoke again. "What is it you don't want to tell us?"

Klinger threw the hat on the floor and stomped on it with his boot. "Boy, you guys really love dragging me through the mud, don't you? You wanna know?" He rose to his feet. "Fine, I'll lay it all out. And then you can tell me how Johnson is doing without blackmailing me." Max began to pace the length of the tent near the stove, wringing his hands behind his back without the aid of his floor-strewn hat. "I get on the horn and put a call through to the 121st and this jerk answers and gives me a bunch of trouble for waking him up from his beauty sleep. Like I'd be up myself if I didn't have a job to do. I tell him to get the captain, and he does. I say I'm me, and the first thing Lyle says when he picks up the phone is that he doesn't need to hear anything more about what John told us."

"But John didn't tell us anything," BJ said, walking to Charles' side of the Swamp.

"You don't think I know that? So I tell Lyle I'm not calling about that, and he interrupts me with this rant about how John found out he was messing around on his wife and how they had a nice big fight about it. And_then_ he tells me that he told her if she didn't stop preaching she could hit the road."

Hunnicutt understood. He held up his hand signaling Klinger to stop. "And she did."

"You gonna shoot the messenger?" Klinger asked, taking a short step back.

"We can hardly blame you for what Lyle Johnson said to his sister several miles away from here," Charles consoled the sergeant. He ran his hand over his bald head and sat back in contemplation. "The lout."

"It's sure not going to make things any easier for him." BJ took a seat on Charles' footlocker. "We lost her in there."

Klinger shifted uneasily, his pulse quickening like it had before. "I thought Father Mulcahy said she pulled through."

"She did," said Charles, "but not of her own volition."

"Come again?" Klinger's heart was still racing, having heard nothing to convince it to do otherwise.

"Her heart stopped during the operation." Hunnicutt danced around the details, unwilling to either recount or relive the nightmare again, never mind so soon after the fact. "Hawkeye did what he had to and brought her back."

Max thought about it for a moment, scratching his head thoughtfully. "How's that gonna affect her recovery?" he queried at last.

"It shouldn't," Charles remarked decisively. "Her heart continued to pump consistently on its own following the adrenaline Pierce gave her, and if we combine her body's natural will to live with the effects of the Levophed should her blood pressure drop she will recover quite marvelously." His firm convictions were enough to convince Klinger. If only they had been enough to convince Charles himself.

"That sounds good to me," Klinger said jovially. He stood up and shook hands with both doctors before shoving his hands into his pants pockets. "I think I'll head over to post-op and have a look on my own. You guys plan on having breakfast?"

BJ shook his head. "I think I'm going to have a look for Hawkeye and let him know what you told us. Maybe then he'll stop blaming himself and making the rest of our lives miserable in the process."

"Here, here!" chanted Charles. His hands once again found Honoria's letters and he retrieved them from their place on his nightstand. "I will most likely be making an appearance for breakfast, though I believe it is a sin to compare what they serve in that tent to an honest meal. You will, of course, inform us if Johnson's condition has changed Max?"

"You bet I will." Max pushed open the door and crossed the threshold. "Thanks for the news, sirs." He turned and was gone, taking giant strides toward the post-operative ward as if he couldn't possibly get there fast enough. BJ and Charles were left alone once more.

"Do I understand Pierce was not exactly pleased with this morning's procedures?" Charles spoke at length, his eyes focused on Honoria's words though he did not actually read them. In truth, he was quite interested in how Hawkeye was handling things. He could not come right out and admit it. After all, someone had to keep a level head, what with Klinger's anxiety and BJ's bursts of anger.

"You know, he actually blamed me for putting the weight of the whole operation on his head. _Me_. Forget the fact that any one of us would have felt the pressure." BJ was up again in an instant, pacing as Klinger had done. "Sometimes he really is a thick-skulled jerk."

"You are preaching to the converted, Hunnicutt." Charles turned the thought over in his head. "Then again, maybe we are being a little quick to judge. After all, neither one of us fought Pierce in his decision to perform the surgery. Perhaps we owe it to him as well as to ourselves to provide a little leniency." His eyes shifted from the paper he held to where BJ had finally stopped pacing long enough to stand.

Hunnicutt returned his look. "I guess I'd better go find him. Maybe he's had enough time to cool off and be reasonable for a change."

Charles chortled. "Ha! Hardly."

"Thanks, Charles." The blonde man grabbed a pair of trousers from their place on the floor and pulled them on. He shoved his feet in his boots, tied them haphazardly, and was out the door before Winchester even realised he was gone.

Charles stared into the emptiness of the Swamp.


End file.
